


Intermission

by Jenny_Starseed



Category: Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: Adultary, F/M, Friendship, mozart - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenny_Starseed/pseuds/Jenny_Starseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a Tietjens.  A Tietjens suffers through a bad Concerto for a friend.  A Tietjens does not make a scene when he first catches his wife openly flirting with another man.  Above all, a Tietjens lives with the consequences of his mistake with extreme dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladygray99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygray99/gifts).



> Beta-ed by got_quiet who pointed out some kinks that needed to be smoothed out in the fic. 
> 
> Takes place a couple of months after Sylvia and Christopher gets married.

The melodies of the Mozart piano concerto was sedate, polite and dull to Christopher’s untrained ears. One melody would begin but never quite resolved because another melody interrupted it. Christopher disliked music, he preferred the sedate, calming sounds of nature and Groby. He closed his eyes and imagined a horse’s hooves clop-clop-clopping against the packed dirt beneath its feet and the whistling wind through the leaves that were punctuated by the odd sound of a bird chirping. As a boy, he would sit in the fields of Groby, listening. His brothers would ask him what in blazes he was doing, sitting there like a dummy? He opened his eyes and looked around at the people in the concert hall. He wanted to pose the exact same question to everyone in the concert hall: what are all you doing here, sitting here like dummies? But that would only earn him odd stares for such a self-evidently redundant question.

His friend Vincent Macmaster, sat beside him. His posture was stiff and erect, his face a portrait of extreme concentration like they were in one of the rooms at Cambridge with their instructor lecturing them. Christopher let his eyes wander since the sight of the erratic synchronized movements of the violin bows had ceased to interest him. The men were in their best clothes and the ladies were in their shimmering refinery, full of lace, gloves, jewels and feathers. In the dim hall, their jewels sparkled like dots of light amidst the solemn blackness of the darkened room and contrasted with the darkness of the men’s dinner jackets. The people in the room were infinitely more interesting than the plodding methodical melodies and harmonies of the Concerto.

Vincent made a discreet sound in the back of his throat, calling for Christopher’s attention. Christopher looked at Vincent, who made a gesture, a nod in the direction of the door with a slight smile. Ah. His friend was as bored as Christopher was. But naturally, they had to wait until intermission. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

“What a ghastly bore that was,” said Vincent, after the last notes of the concerto faded in the Concert Hall, releasing them from their misery. “Explain to me why we are here? Remind me to never have poor Digby convince us that these very concertos would change the way we think of Mozart. I might have dozed off in that last movement if I wasn’t anticipating the end and a chance to visit the men’s room.”

“It was to put your mind off your infatuation with that harlot, Valerie. I agree this wasn’t the best idea Digby has had. The poor chap doesn’t seem to understand how libido works. A man can’t will away physical desire with a Mozart concerto.”

A pretty, pert young blonde in a royal blue dress walked past them. She had big blue eyes and pink lips. Vincent's eyes gazed from head to toe of the girl, appreciating every curve of the young woman. Christopher couldn't help but admire the girl himself. Vincent had fine taste in women but it had often led to trouble. This was the third girl this afternoon that had caught Vincent's gaze. 

Vincent closed his eyes tightly, as if this act would will away his desires. “Damn it all, it made it even worse. I could look at all the women I want to without feeling chastised. There’s a lovely blonde sitting in the box across from us that had the loveliest milky…” Vincent let the thought die in his throat when Christopher gave him a grave look. “Well, never mind. You get the idea. It’s enough to tempt any man. It would have been more humane to send me off to a brothel. Dear old Durham offered to take me to one. A secret place in London where all of London’s finest go to take care of…err, their natural urges.” 

Vincent scanned the room in a transparent attempt to avoid looking at the blond who passed them. His eyes widened and he pointed somewhere over Christopher’s right shoulder. “Say, isn’t that your wife Sylvia, there? I thought you said she didn’t go to these concerts, preferring Verdi over Mozart.”

Christopher looked in the direction Vincent was pointing to, and sure enough, there was Sylvia. Sylvia was splendidly draped in red silk, her red hair piled on high in a complicated but elegant mess of curls that were adorned by a single white plume. A string of pearls around her neck and elbow length gloves that matched her dress completed her look. Christopher had never seen the dress before. It must have been the new one that cost them quite a bit. The butler had just handed the bill from the dressmaker to Christopher this morning. 

Christopher’s gaze lingered on her swaying, long, lean form. She approached a small gentleman, his hair slicked back in oil. He had small eyes, and a small nose and chin. Everything about the man was small, except his beard that seemed to swallow his jaw. 

She stood close to him, her red gloved hand on his arm. She spoke softly in his ear, something that couldn’t be heard in amidst the soft, refined chatter of the people around them. Whatever she said, it made the little man turn red. He seemed not to know how to respond. She handed him a card and whispered again in his ear. He nodded attentively, agreeing to something. Her gloved hand was still on his arm when she caught Christopher looking at her. 

Sylvia didn’t flinch or avert her eyes. She looked steadily at him, curiously, as though she was waiting for him to do something. It almost felt like she was daring him to make a scene in front of all their friends. There was a very slight upturn of the corner of her mouth. He expected her to look shocked and remorseful, instead he unwittingly found himself playing a silent game of chicken with his wife. 

Christopher gripped his champagne glass tighter. 

He stood stock still, as if his posture was the only thing that kept him from losing his dignity in this silent battle of wills. The damnable small man his wife is flirting with seemed to be oblivious to this silent scene as he fumbled with his wine glass while trying to put away the card Sylvia had just handed him. This tiny, tiny, minor, glorified clerk who was nothing more than a yes-man to Sir Ingleby. It made Christopher hold his glass even tighter when he realized that he couldn't remember the man’s name. He was that sort of nobody. Surely Sylvia wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good marriage for this man?

Sylvia chuckled at the man’s clumsiness while she kept her gaze on him, making him feel like a co-conspirator in mocking the man while he wasn’t looking. If this man wasn’t her lover, she would have poked fun at him the next morning during their morning breakfast. It was then he realized that this was all a fun game to Sylvia. This was the sort of wife he had married and Christopher felt a little sick. It was his shock that kept him from going up to his wife to slap her and drag her out of this godforsaken concert hall that he began to loathe. 

Christopher took a deep breath and unclenched his teeth he didn’t know he was clenching. He reminded himself that what went on between a man and his wife went on behind closed doors. Responsibility. Duty. Appearances. Dignity. Above all, dignity. A man makes a mistake and lives with the consequences, he reminded himself. He doesn’t go about making a scene like a petty child. He was a Tietjens and the man of his own house and it was his duty to set an example for his family and his peers. He firmly believed this. 

“Christopher?” 

Vincent’s voice interrupted his thoughts, reminding him that his friend was beside him and he was the reason he attended this concert in the first place: to make sure his friend didn't make same mistake he realized he just made. He had suspected that he was a cuckold in this charade marriage, but it was a blow to have it confirmed tonight. Amidst all this finery, he felt that his life had become a lurid soap opera rather than the moderate success story he desperately hoped for. 

“I’m sorry, my dear chap. I think you’re mistaken. I don’t see Sylvia at all,” said Christopher, trying to inject as much believable indifference in his response in hoping to Vincent would leave the painful subject. 

Christopher didn’t think he succeeded when Vincent frowned and scrutinized the redhead in front of him. “Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw your wife with that little nincompoop Morris.”

“Really? I hardly noticed.”

Blessed Vincent. He didn’t probe any further as he led Christopher back into the concert hall. “Come, Chrissy. Digby won’t forgive us if we miss the opening movement of the illustrious concerto in F sharp minor something or another.”


End file.
